CHAPTER I
 There are people who do not like dogs a bit—they are usually women—but in this story there is a man who did not like dogs. In fact, he hated them. When he saw one he used to go black in the face, and he threw rocks at it until it got out of sight. But the Power that protects all creatures had put a squint into this man’s eye, so that he always threw crooked.
 This gentleman’s name was Fergus Fionnliath, and his stronghold was near the harbour of Galway. Whenever a dog barked he would leap out of his seat, and he would throw everything that he owned out of the window in the direction of the bark. He gave prizes to servants who disliked dogs, and when he heard that a man had drowned a litter of pups he used to visit that person and try to marry his daughter.
 Now Fionn, the son of Uail, was the reverse of Fergus Fionnliath in this matter, for he delighted in dogs, and he knew everything about them from the setting of the first little white tooth to the rocking of the last long yellow one. He knew the affections and antipathies which are proper in a dog; the degree of obedience to which dogs may be trained without losing their honourable qualities or becoming servile and suspicious; he knew the hopes that animate them, the apprehensions which tingle in their blood, and all that is to be demanded from, or forgiven in, a paw, an ear, a nose, an eye, or a tooth; and he understood these things because he loved dogs, for it is by love alone that we understand anything.
 Among the three hundred dogs which Fionn owned there were two to whom he gave an especial tenderness, and who were his daily and nightly companions. These two were Bran and Sceo’lan, but if a person were to guess for twenty years he would not find out why Fionn loved these two dogs and why he would never be separated from them.
 Fionn’s mother, Muirne, went to wide Allen of Leinster to visit her son, and she brought her young sister Tuiren with her. The mother and aunt of the great captain were well treated among the Fianna, first, because they were parents to Fionn, and second, because they were beautiful and noble women.
 No words can describe how delightful Muirne was—she took the branch; and as to Tuiren, a man could not look at her without becoming angry or dejected. Her face was fresh as a spring morning; her voice more cheerful than the cuckoo calling from the branch that is highest in the hedge; and her form swayed like a reed and flowed like a river, so that each person thought she would surely flow to him.
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 Men who had wives of their own grew moody and downcast because they could not hope to marry her, while the bachelors of the Fianna stared at each other with truculent, bloodshot eyes, and then they gazed on Tuiren so gently that she may have imagined she was being beamed on by the mild eyes of the dawn.
 It was to an Ulster gentleman, Iollan Eachtach, that she gave her love, and this chief stated his rights and qualities and asked for her in marriage.
 Now Fionn did not dislike the man of Ulster, but either he did not know them well or else he knew them too well, for he made a curious stipulation before consenting to the marriage. He bound Iollan to return the lady if there should be occasion to think her unhappy, and Iollan agreed to do so. The sureties to this bargain were Caelte mac Ronan, Goll mac Morna, and Lugaidh. Lugaidh himself gave the bride away, but it was not a pleasant ceremony for him, because he also was in love with the lady, and he would have preferred keeping her to giving her away. When she had gone he made a poem about her, beginning:

 “There is no more light in the sky—”

 And hundreds of sad people learned the poem by heart.

 CHAPTER II
 When Iollan and Tuiren were married they went to Ulster, and they lived together very happily. But the law of life is change; nothing continues in the same way for any length of time; happiness must become unhappiness, and will be succeeded again by the joy it had displaced. The past also must be reckoned with; it is seldom as far behind us as we could wish: it is more often in front, blocking the way, and the future trips over it just when we think that the road is clear and joy our own.
 Iollan had a past. He was not ashamed of it; he merely thought it was finished, although in truth it was only beginning, for it is that perpetual beginning of the past that we call the future.
 Before he joined the Fianna he had been in love with a lady of the Shi’, named Uct Dealv (Fair Breast), and they had been sweethearts for years. How often he had visited his sweetheart in Faery! With what eagerness and anticipation he had gone there; the lover’s whistle that he used to give was known to every person in that Shi’, and he had been discussed by more than one of the delicate sweet ladies of Faery. “That is your whistle, Fair Breast,” her sister of the Shi’ would say.
 And Uct Dealv would reply: “Yes, that is my mortal, my lover, my pulse, and my one treasure.”
 She laid her spinning aside, or her embroidery if she was at that, or if she were baking a cake of fine wheaten bread mixed with honey she would leave the cake to bake itself and fly to Iollan. Then they went hand in hand in the country that smells of apple-blossom and honey, looking on heavy-boughed trees and on dancing and beaming clouds. Or they stood dreaming together, locked in a clasping of arms and eyes, gazing up and down on each other, Iollan staring down into sweet grey wells that peeped and flickered under thin brows, and Uct Dealv looking up into great black ones that went dreamy and went hot in endless alternation.
 Then Iollan would go back to the world of men, and Uct Dealv would return to her occupations in the Land of the Ever Young.
 “What did he say?” her sister of the Shi’ would ask.
 “He said I was the Berry of the Mountain, the Star of Knowledge, and the Blossom of the Raspberry.”
 “They always say the same thing,” her sister pouted.
 “But they look other things,” Uct Dealv insisted. “They feel other things,” she murmured; and an endless conversation recommenced.
 Then for some time Iollan did not come to Faery, and Uct Dealv marvelled at that, while her sister made an hundred surmises, each one worse than the last.
 “He is not dead or he would be here,” she said. “He has forgotten you, my darling.”
 News was brought to Tlr na n-Og of the marriage of Iollan and Tuiren, and when Uct Dealv heard that news her heart ceased to beat for a moment, and she closed her eyes.
 “Now!” said her sister of the Shi’. “That is how long the love of a mortal lasts,” she added, in the voice of sad triumph which is proper to sisters.
 But on Uct Dealv there came a rage of jealousy and despair such as no person in the Shi’ had ever heard of, and from that moment she became capable of every ill deed; for there are two things not easily controlled, and they are hunger and jealousy. She determined that the woman who had supplanted her in Iollan’s affections should rue the day she did it. She pondered and brooded revenge in her heart, sitting in thoughtful solitude and bitter collectedness until at last she had a plan.
 She understood the arts of magic and shape-changing, so she changed her shape into that of Fionn’s female runner, the best-known woman in Ireland; then she set out from Faery and appeared in the world. She travelled in the direction of Iollan’s stronghold.
 Iollan knew the appearance of Fionn’s messenger, but he was surprised to see her.
 She saluted him.
 “Health and long life, my master.”.
 “Health and good days,” he replied. “What brings you here, dear heart?”
 “I come from Fionn.”
 “And your message?” said he.
 “The royal captain intends to visit you.”
 “He will be welcome,” said Iollan. “We shall give him an Ulster feast.”
 “The world knows what that is,” said the messenger courteously. “And now,” she continued, “I have messages for your queen.”
 Tuiren then walked from the house with the messenger, but when they had gone a short distance Uct Dealv drew a hazel rod from beneath her cloak and struck it on the queen’s shoulder, and on the instant Tuiren’s figure trembled and quivered, and it began to whirl inwards and downwards, and she changed into the appearance of a hound.
 It was sad to see the beautiful, slender dog standing shivering and astonished, and sad to see the lovely eyes that looked out pitifully in terror and amazement. But Uct Dealv did not feel sad. She clasped a chain about the hound’s neck, and they set off westward towards the house of Fergus Fionnliath, who was reputed to be the unfriendliest man in the world to a dog. It was because of his reputation that Uct Dealv was bringing the hound to him. She did not want a good home for this dog: she wanted the worst home that could be found in the world, and she thought that Fergus would revenge for her the rage and jealousy which she felt towards Tuiren.

 CHAPTER III
 As they paced along Uct Dealv railed bitterly against the hound, and shook and jerked her chain. Many a sharp cry the hound gave in that journey, many a mild lament.
 “Ah, supplanter! Ah, taker of another girl’s sweetheart!” said Uct Dealv fiercely. “How would your lover take it if he could see you now? How would he look if he saw your pointy ears, your long thin snout, your shivering, skinny legs, and your long grey tail. He would not love you now, bad girl!”
 “Have you heard of Fergus Fionnliath,” she said again, “the man who does not like dogs?”
 Tuiren had indeed heard of him.
 “It is to Fergus I shall bring you,” cried Uct Dealv. “He will throw stones at you. You have never had a stone thrown at you. Ah, bad girl! You do not know how a stone sounds as it nips the ear with a whirling buzz, nor how jagged and heavy it feels as it thumps against a skinny leg. Robber! Mortal! Bad girl! You have never been whipped, but you will be whipped now. You shall hear the song of a lash as it curls forward and bites inward and drags backward. You shall dig up old bones stealthily at night, and chew them against famine. You shall whine and squeal at the moon, and shiver in the cold, and you will never take another girl’s sweetheart again.”
 And it was in those terms and in that tone that she spoke to Tuiren as they journeyed forward, so that the hound trembled and shrank, and whined pitifully and in despair.
 They came to Fergus Fionnliath’s stronghold, and Uct Dealv demanded admittance.
 “Leave that dog outside,” said the servant.
 “I will not do so,” said the pretended messenger.
 “You can come in without the dog, or you can stay out with the dog,” said the surly guardian.
 “By my hand,” cried Uct Dealv, “I will come in with this dog, or your master shall answer for it to Fionn.”
 At the name of Fionn the servant almost fell out of his standing. He flew to acquaint his master, and Fergus himself came to the great door of the stronghold.
 “By my faith,” he cried in amazement, “it is a dog.”
 “A dog it is,” growled the glum servant.
 “Go you away,” said Fergus to Uct Dealv, “and when you have killed the dog come back to me and I will give you a present.”
 “Life and health, my good master, from Fionn, the son of Uail, the son of Baiscne,” said she to Fergus.
 “Life and health back to Fionn,” he replied. “Come into the house and give your message, but leave the dog outside, for I don’t like dogs.”
 “The dog comes in,” the messenger replied.
 “How is that?” cried Fergus angrily.
 “Fionn sends you this hound to take care of until he comes for her,” said the messenger.
 “I wonder at that,” Fergus growled, “for Fionn knows well that there is not a man in the world has less of a liking for dogs than I have.”
 “However that may be, master, I have given Fionn’s message, and here at my heel is the dog. Do you take her or refuse her?”
 “If I could refuse anything to Fionn it would be a dog,” said Fergus, “but I could not refuse anything to Fionn, so give me the hound.”
 Uct Dealv put the chain in his hand.
 “Ah, bad dog!” said she.
 And then she went away well satisfied with her revenge, and returned to her own people in the Shi.

 CHAPTER IV
 On the following day Fergus called his servant.
 “Has that dog stopped shivering yet?” he asked.
 “It has not, sir,” said the servant.
 “Bring the beast here,” said his master, “for whoever else is dissatisfied Fionn must be satisfied.”
 The dog was brought, and he examined it with a jaundiced and bitter eye.
 “It has the shivers indeed,” he said.
 “The shivers it has,” said the servant.
 “How do you cure the shivers?” his master demanded, for he thought that if the animal’s legs dropped off Fionn would not be satisfied.
 “There is a way,” said the servant doubtfully.
 “If there is a way, tell it to me,” cried his master angrily.
 “If you were to take the beast up in your arms and hug it and kiss it, the shivers would stop,” said the man.
 “Do you mean—?” his master thundered, and he stretched his hand for a club.
 “I heard that,” said the servant humbly.
 “Take that dog up,” Fergus commanded, “and hug it and kiss it, and if I find a single shiver left in the beast I’ll break your head.”
 The man bent to the hound, but it snapped a piece out of his hand, and nearly bit his nose off as well.
 “That dog doesn’t like me,” said the man.
 “Nor do I,” roared Fergus; “get out of my sight.”
 The man went away and Fergus was left alone with the hound, but the poor creature was so terrified that it began to tremble ten times worse than before.
 “Its legs will drop off,” said Fergus. “Fionn will blame me,” he cried in despair.
 He walked to the hound.
 “If you snap at my nose, or if you put as much as the start of a tooth into the beginning of a finger!” he growled.
 He picked up the dog, but it did not snap, it only trembled. He held it gingerly for a few moments.
 “If it has to be hugged,” he said, “I’ll hug it. I’d do more than that for Fionn.”
 He tucked and tightened the animal into his breast, and marched moodily up and down the room. The dog’s nose lay along his breast under his chin, and as he gave it dutiful hugs, one hug to every five paces, the dog put out its tongue and licked him timidly under the chin.
 “Stop,” roared Fergus, “stop that forever,” and he grew very red in the face, and stared truculently down along his nose. A soft brown eye looked up at him and the shy tongue touched again on his chin.
 “If it has to be kissed,” said Fergus gloomily, “I’ll kiss it; I’d do more than that for Fionn,” he groaned.
 He bent his head, shut his eyes, and brought the dog’s jaw against his lips. And at that the dog gave little wriggles in his arms, and little barks, and little licks, so that he could scarcely hold her. He put the hound down at last.
 “There is not a single shiver left in her,” he said.
 And that was true.
 Everywhere he walked the dog followed him, giving little prances and little pats against him, and keeping her eyes fixed on his with such eagerness and intelligence that he marvelled.
 “That dog likes me,” he murmured in amazement.
 “By my hand,” he cried next day, “I like that dog.”
 The day after that he was calling her “My One Treasure, My Little Branch.” And within a week he could not bear her to be out of his sight for an instant.
 He was tormented by the idea that some evil person might throw a stone at the hound, so he assembled his servants and retainers and addressed them.
 He told them that the hound was the Queen of Creatures, the Pulse of his Heart, and the Apple of his Eye, and he warned them that the person who as much as looked sideways on her, or knocked one shiver out of her, would answer for the deed with pains and indignities. He recited a list of calamities which would befall such a miscreant, and these woes began with flaying and ended with dismemberment, and had inside bits of such complicated and ingenious torment that the blood of the men who heard it ran chill in their veins, and the women of the household fainted where they stood.

 CHAPTER V
 In course of time the news came to Fionn that his mother’s sister was not living with Iollan. He at once sent a messenger calling for fulfilment of the pledge that had been given to the Fianna, and demanding the instant return of Tuiren. Iollan was in a sad condition when this demand was made. He guessed that Uct Dealv had a hand in the disappearance of his queen, and he begged that time should be given him in which to find the lost girl. He promised if he could not discover her within a certain period that he would deliver his body into Fionn’s hands, and would abide by whatever judgement Fionn might pronounce. The great captain agreed to that.
 “Tell the wife-loser that I will have the girl or I will have his head,” said Fionn.
 Iollan set out then for Faery. He knew the way, and in no great time he came to the hill where Uct Dealv was.
 It was hard to get Uct Dealv to meet him, but at last she consented, and they met under the apple boughs of Faery.
 “Well!” said Uct Dealv. “Ah! Breaker of Vows and Traitor to Love,” said she.
 “Hail and a blessing,” said Iollan humbly.
 “By my hand,” she cried, “I will give you no blessing, for it was no blessing you left with me when we parted.”
 “I am in danger,” said Iollan.
 “What is that to me?” she replied fiercely.
 “Fionn may claim my head,” he murmured.
 “Let him claim what he can take,” said she.
 “No,” said Iollan proudly, “he will claim what I can give.”
 “Tell me your tale,” said she coldly.
 Iollan told his story then, and, he concluded, “I am certain that you have hidden the girl.”
 “If I save your head from Fionn,” the woman of the Shi’ replied, “then your head will belong to me.”
 “That is true,” said Iollan.
 “And if your head is mine, the body that goes under it is mine. Do you agree to that?”
 “I do,” said Iollan.
 “Give me your pledge,” said Uct Dealv, “that if I save you from this danger you will keep me as your sweetheart until the end of life and time.”
 “I give that pledge,” said Iollan.
 Uct Dealv went then to the house of Fergus Fionnliath, and she broke the enchantment that was on the hound, so that Tuiren’s own shape came back to her; but in the matter of two small whelps, to which the hound had given birth, the enchantment could not be broken, so they had to remain as they were. These two whelps were Bran and Sceo’lan. They were sent to Fionn, and he loved them for ever after, for they were loyal and affectionate, as only dogs can be, and they were as intelligent as human beings. Besides that, they were Fionn’s own cousins.
 Tuiren was then asked in marriage by Lugaidh who had loved her so long. He had to prove to her that he was not any other woman’s sweetheart, and when he proved that they were married, and they lived happily ever after, which is the proper way to live. He wrote a poem beginning:
 “Lovely the day. Dear is the eye of the dawn—”
 
 And a thousand merry people learned it after him.
 But as to Fergus Fionnliath, he took to his bed, and he stayed there for a year and a day suffering from blighted affection, and he would have died in the bed only that Fionn sent him a special pup, and in a week that young hound became the Star of Fortune and the very Pulse of his Heart, so that he got well again, and he also lived happily ever after.
 

CHAPTER I
 EVENING was drawing nigh, and the Fianna-Finn had decided to hunt no more that day. The hounds were whistled to heel, and a sober, homeward march began. For men will walk soberly in the evening, however they go in the day, and dogs will take the mood from their masters. They were pacing so, through the golden-shafted, tender-coloured eve, when a fawn leaped suddenly from covert, and, with that leap, all quietness vanished: the men shouted, the dogs gave tongue, and a furious chase commenced.
 Fionn loved a chase at any hour, and, with Bran and Sceo’lan, he outstripped the men and dogs of his troop, until nothing remained in the limpid world but Fionn, the two hounds, and the nimble, beautiful fawn. These, and the occasional boulders, round which they raced, or over which they scrambled; the solitary tree which dozed aloof and beautiful in the path, the occasional clump of trees that hived sweet shadow as a hive hoards honey, and the rustling grass that stretched to infinity, and that moved and crept and swung under the breeze in endless, rhythmic billowings.
 In his wildest moment Fionn was thoughtful, and now, although running hard, he was thoughtful. There was no movement of his beloved hounds that he did not know; not a twitch or fling of the head, not a cock of the ears or tail that was not significant to him. But on this chase whatever signs the dogs gave were not understood by their master.
 He had never seen them in such eager flight. They were almost utterly absorbed in it, but they did not whine with eagerness, nor did they cast any glance towards him for the encouraging word which he never failed to give when they sought it.
 They did look at him, but it was a look which he could not comprehend. There was a question and a statement in those deep eyes, and he could not understand what that question might be, nor what it was they sought to convey. Now and again one of the dogs turned a head in full flight, and stared, not at Fionn, but distantly backwards, over the spreading and swelling plain where their companions of the hunt had disappeared. “They are looking for the other hounds,” said Fionn.
 “And yet they do not give tongue! Tongue it, a Vran!” he shouted, “Bell it out, a Heo’lan!”
 It was then they looked at him, the look which he could not understand and had never seen on a chase. They did not tongue it, nor bell it, but they added silence to silence and speed to speed, until the lean grey bodies were one pucker and lashing of movement.
 Fionn marvelled. “They do not want the other dogs to hear or to come on this chase,” he murmured, and he wondered what might be passing within those slender heads.
 “The fawn runs well,” his thought continued. “What is it, a Vran, my heart? After her, a Heo’lan! Hist and away, my loves!”
 “There is going and to spare in that beast yet,” his mind went on. “She is not stretched to the full, nor half stretched. She may outrun even Bran,” he thought ragingly.
 They were racing through a smooth valley in a steady, beautiful, speedy flight when, suddenly, the fawn stopped and lay on the grass, and it lay with the calm of an animal that has no fear, and the leisure of one that is not pressed.
 “Here is a change,” said Fionn, staring in astonishment.
 “She is not winded,” he said. “What is she lying down for?” But Bran and Sceo’lan did not stop; they added another inch to their long-stretched easy bodies, and came up on the fawn.
 “It is an easy kill,” said Fionn regretfully. “They have her,” he cried.
 But he was again astonished, for the dogs did not kill. They leaped and played about the fawn, licking its face, and rubbing delighted noses against its neck.
 Fionn came up then. His long spear was lowered in his fist at the thrust, and his sharp knife was in its sheath, but he did not use them, for the fawn and the two hounds began to play round him, and the fawn was as affectionate towards him as the hounds were; so that when a velvet nose was thrust in his palm, it was as often a fawn’s muzzle as a hound’s.
 In that joyous company he came to wide Allen of Leinster, where the people were surprised to see the hounds and the fawn and the Chief and none other of the hunters that had set out with them.
 When the others reached home, the Chief told of his chase, and it was agreed that such a fawn must not be killed, but that it should be kept and well treated, and that it should be the pet fawn of the Fianna. But some of those who remembered Brah’s parentage thought that as Bran herself had come from the Shi so this fawn might have come out of the Shi also.

 CHAPTER II
 Late that night, when he was preparing for rest, the door of Fionn’s chamber opened gently and a young woman came into the room. The captain stared at her, as he well might, for he had never seen or imagined to see a woman so beautiful as this was. Indeed, she was not a woman, but a young girl, and her bearing was so gently noble, her look so modestly high, that the champion dared scarcely look at her, although he could not by any means have looked away.
 As she stood within the doorway, smiling, and shy as a flower, beautifully timid as a fawn, the Chief communed with his heart.
 “She is the Sky-woman of the Dawn,” he said. “She is the light on the foam. She is white and odorous as an apple-blossom. She smells of spice and honey. She is my beloved beyond the women of the world. She shall never be taken from me.”
 And that thought was delight and anguish to him: delight because of such sweet prospect, anguish because it was not yet realised, and might not be.
 As the dogs had looked at him on the chase with a look that he did not understand, so she looked at him, and in her regard there was a question that baffled him and a statement which he could not follow.
 He spoke to her then, mastering his heart to do it.
 “I do not seem to know you,” he said.
 “You do not know me indeed,” she replied.
 “It is the more wonderful,” he continued gently, “for I should know every person that is here. What do you require from me?”
 “I beg your protection, royal captain.”
 “I give that to all,” he answered. “Against whom do you desire protection?”
 “I am in terror of the Fear Doirche.”
 “The Dark Man of the Shi?”
 “He is my enemy,” she said.
 “He is mine now,” said Fionn. “Tell me your story.”
 “My name is Saeve, and I am a woman of Faery,” she commenced. “In the Shi’ many men gave me their love, but I gave my love to no man of my country.”
 “That was not reasonable,” the other chided with a blithe heart.
 “I was contented,” she replied, “and what we do not want we do not lack. But if my love went anywhere it went to a mortal, a man of the men of Ireland.”
 “By my hand,” said Fionn in mortal distress, “I marvel who that man can be!”
 “He is known to you,” she murmured. “I lived thus in the peace of Faery, hearing often of my mortal champion, for the rumour of his great deeds had gone through the Shi’, until a day came when the Black Magician of the Men of God put his eye on me, and, after that day, in whatever direction I looked I saw his eye.”
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 She stopped at that, and the terror that was in her heart was on her face. “He is everywhere,” she whispered. “He is in the bushes, and on the hill. He looked up at me from the water, and he stared down on me from the sky. His voice commands out of the spaces, and it demands secretly in the heart. He is not here or there, he is in all places at all times. I cannot escape from him,” she said, “and I am afraid,” and at that she wept noiselessly and stared on Fionn.
 “He is my enemy,” Fionn growled. “I name him as my enemy.”
 “You will protect me,” she implored.
 “Where I am let him not come,” said Fionn. “I also have knowledge. I am Fionn, the son of Uail, the son of Baiscne, a man among men and a god where the gods are.”
 “He asked me in marriage,” she continued, “but my mind was full of my own dear hero, and I refused the Dark Man.”
 “That was your right, and I swear by my hand that if the man you desire is alive and unmarried he shall marry you or he will answer to me for the refusal.”
 “He is not married,” said Saeve, “and you have small control over him.” The Chief frowned thoughtfully. “Except the High King and the kings I have authority in this land.”
 “What man has authority over himself?” said Saeve.
 “Do you mean that I am the man you seek?” said Fionn.
 “It is to yourself I gave my love,” she replied. “This is good news,” Fionn cried joyfully, “for the moment you came through the door I loved and desired you, and the thought that you wished for another man went into my heart like a sword.” Indeed, Fionn loved Saeve as he had not loved a woman before and would never love one again. He loved her as he had never loved anything before. He could not bear to be away from her. When he saw her he did not see the world, and when he saw the world without her it was as though he saw nothing, or as if he looked on a prospect that was bleak and depressing. The belling of a stag had been music to Fionn, but when Saeve spoke that was sound enough for him. He had loved to hear the cuckoo calling in the spring from the tree that is highest in the hedge, or the blackbird’s jolly whistle in an autumn bush, or the thin, sweet enchantment that comes to the mind when a lark thrills out of sight in the air and the hushed fields listen to the song. But his wife’s voice was sweeter to Fionn than the singing of a lark. She filled him with wonder and surmise. There was magic in the tips of her fingers. Her thin palm ravished him. Her slender foot set his heart beating; and whatever way her head moved there came a new shape of beauty to her face.
 “She is always new,” said Fionn. “She is always better than any other woman; she is always better than herself.”
 He attended no more to the Fianna. He ceased to hunt. He did not listen to the songs of poets or the curious sayings of magicians, for all of these were in his wife, and something that was beyond these was in her also.
 “She is this world and the next one; she is completion,” said Fionn.

 CHAPTER III
 It happened that the men of Lochlann came on an expedition against Ireland. A monstrous fleet rounded the bluffs of Ben Edair, and the Danes landed there, to prepare an attack which would render them masters of the country. Fionn and the Fianna-Finn marched against them. He did not like the men of Lochlann at any time, but this time he moved against them in wrath, for not only were they attacking Ireland, but they had come between him and the deepest joy his life had known.
 It was a hard fight, but a short one. The Lochlannachs were driven back to their ships, and within a week the only Danes remaining in Ireland were those that had been buried there.
 That finished, he left the victorious Fianna and returned swiftly to the plain of Allen, for he could not bear to be one unnecessary day parted from Saeve.
 “You are not leaving us!” exclaimed Goll mac Morna.
 “I must go,” Fionn replied.
 “You will not desert the victory feast,” Conan reproached him.
 “Stay with us, Chief,” Caelte begged.
 “What is a feast without Fionn?” they complained.
 But he would not stay.
 “By my hand,” he cried, “I must go. She will be looking for me from the window.”
 “That will happen indeed,” Goll admitted.
 “That will happen,” cried Fionn. “And when she sees me far out on the plain, she will run through the great gate to meet me.”
 “It would be the queer wife would neglect that run,” Cona’n growled.
 “I shall hold her hand again,” Fionn entrusted to Caelte’s ear.
 “You will do that, surely.”
 “I shall look into her face,” his lord insisted. But he saw that not even beloved Caelte understood the meaning of that, and he knew sadly and yet proudly that what he meant could not be explained by any one and could not be comprehended by any one.
 “You are in love, dear heart,” said Caelte.
 “In love he is,” Cona’n grumbled. “A cordial for women, a disease for men, a state of wretchedness.”
 “Wretched in truth,” the Chief murmured. “Love makes us poor We have not eyes enough to see all that is to be seen, nor hands enough to seize the tenth of all we want. When I look in her eyes I am tormented because I am not looking at her lips, and when I see her lips my soul cries out, ‘Look at her eyes, look at her eyes.’”
 “That is how it happens,” said Goll rememberingly.
 “That way and no other,” Caelte agreed.
 And the champions looked backwards in time on these lips and those, and knew their Chief would go.
 When Fionn came in sight of the great keep his blood and his feet quickened, and now and again he waved a spear in the air.
 “She does not see me yet,” he thought mournfully.
 “She cannot see me yet,” he amended, reproaching himself.
 But his mind was troubled, for he thought also, or he felt without thinking, that had the positions been changed he would have seen her at twice the distance.
 “She thinks I have been unable to get away from the battle, or that I was forced to remain for the feast.”
 And, without thinking it, he thought that had the positions been changed he would have known that nothing could retain the one that was absent.
 “Women,” he said, “are shamefaced, they do not like to appear eager when others are observing them.”
 But he knew that he would not have known if others were observing him, and that he would not have cared about it if he had known. And he knew that his Saeve would not have seen, and would not have cared for any eyes than his.
 He gripped his spear on that reflection, and ran as he had not run in his life, so that it was a panting, dishevelled man that raced heavily through the gates of the great Dun.
 Within the Dun there was disorder. Servants were shouting to one another, and women were running to and fro aimlessly, wringing their hands and screaming; and, when they saw the Champion, those nearest to him ran away, and there was a general effort on the part of every person to get behind every other person. But Fionn caught the eye of his butler, Gariv Crona’n, the Rough Buzzer, and held it.
 “Come you here,” he said.
 And the Rough Buzzer came to him without a single buzz in his body.
 “Where is the Flower of Allen?” his master demanded.
 “I do not know, master,” the terrified servant replied.
 “You do not know!” said Fionn. “Tell what you do know.”
 And the man told him this story.

 CHAPTER IV
 “When you had been away for a day the guards were surprised. They were looking from the heights of the Dun, and the Flower of Allen was with them. She, for she had a quest’s eye, called out that the master of the Fianna was coming over the ridges to the Dun, and she ran from the keep to meet you.”
 “It was not I,” said Fionn.
 “It bore your shape,” replied Gariv Cronan. “It had your armour and your face, and the dogs, Bran and Sceo’lan, were with it.”
 “They were with me,” said Fionn.
 “They seemed to be with it,” said the servant humbly
 “Tell us this tale,” cried Fionn.
 “We were distrustful,” the servant continued. “We had never known Fionn to return from a combat before it had been fought, and we knew you could not have reached Ben Edar or encountered the Lochlannachs. So we urged our lady to let us go out to meet you, but to remain herself in the Dun.”
 “It was good urging,” Fionn assented.
 “She would not be advised,” the servant wailed. “She cried to us, ‘Let me go to meet my love’.”
 “Alas!” said Fionn.
 “She cried on us, ‘Let me go to meet my husband, the father of the child that is not born.’”
 “Alas!” groaned deep-wounded Fionn. “She ran towards your appearance that had your arms stretched out to her.”
 At that wise Fionn put his hand before his eyes, seeing all that happened.
 “Tell on your tale,” said he.
 “She ran to those arms, and when she reached them the figure lifted its hand. It touched her with a hazel rod, and, while we looked, she disappeared, and where she had been there was a fawn standing and shivering. The fawn turned and bounded towards the gate of the Dun, but the hounds that were by flew after her.”
 Fionn stared on him like a lost man.
 “They took her by the throat—” the shivering servant whispered.
 “Ah!” cried Fionn in a terrible voice.
 “And they dragged her back to the figure that seemed to be Fionn. Three times she broke away and came bounding to us, and three times the dogs took her by the throat and dragged her back.”
 “You stood to look!” the Chief snarled.
 “No, master, we ran, but she vanished as we got to her; the great hounds vanished away, and that being that seemed to be Fionn disappeared with them. We were left in the rough grass, staring about us and at each other, and listening to the moan of the wind and the terror of our hearts.”
 “Forgive us, dear master,” the servant cried. But the great captain made him no answer. He stood as though he were dumb and blind, and now and again he beat terribly on his breast with his closed fist, as though he would kill that within him which should be dead and could not die. He went so, beating on his breast, to his inner room in the Dun, and he was not seen again for the rest of that day, nor until the sun rose over Moy Life’ in the morning.

 CHAPTER V
 For many years after that time, when he was not fighting against the enemies of Ireland, Fionn was searching and hunting through the length and breadth of the country in the hope that he might again chance on his lovely lady from the Shi’. Through all that time he slept in misery each night and he rose each day to grief. Whenever he hunted he brought only the hounds that he trusted, Bran and Sceo’lan, Lomaire, Brod, and Lomlu; for if a fawn was chased each of these five great dogs would know if that was a fawn to be killed or one to be protected, and so there was small danger to Saeve and a small hope of finding her.
 Once, when seven years had passed in fruitless search, Fionn and the chief nobles of the Fianna were hunting Ben Gulbain. All the hounds of the Fianna were out, for Fionn had now given up hope of encountering the Flower of Allen. As the hunt swept along the sides of the hill there arose a great outcry of hounds from a narrow place high on the slope and, over all that uproar there came the savage baying of Fionn’s own dogs.
 “What is this for?” said Fionn, and with his companions he pressed to the spot whence the noise came.
 “They are fighting all the hounds of the Fianna,” cried a champion.
 And they were. The five wise hounds were in a circle and were giving battle to an hundred dogs at once. They were bristling and terrible, and each bite from those great, keen jaws was woe to the beast that received it. Nor did they fight in silence as was their custom and training, but between each onslaught the great heads were uplifted, and they pealed loudly, mournfully, urgently, for their master.
 “They are calling on me,” he roared.
 And with that he ran, as he had only once before run, and the men who were nigh to him went racing as they would not have run for their lives. They came to the narrow place on the slope of the mountain, and they saw the five great hounds in a circle keeping off the other dogs, and in the middle of the ring a little boy was standing. He had long, beautiful hair, and he was naked. He was not daunted by the terrible combat and clamour of the hounds. He did not look at the hounds, but he stared like a young prince at Fionn and the champions as they rushed towards him scattering the pack with the butts of their spears. When the fight was over, Bran and Sceo’lan ran whining to the little boy and licked his hands.
 “They do that to no one,” said a bystander. “What new master is this they have found?”
 Fionn bent to the boy. “Tell me, my little prince and pulse, what your name is, and how you have come into the middle of a hunting-pack, and why you are naked?”
 But the boy did not understand the language of the men of Ireland. He put his hand into Fionn’s, and the Chief felt as if that little hand had been put into his heart. He lifted the lad to his great shoulder.
 “We have caught something on this hunt,” said he to Caelte mac Rongn. “We must bring this treasure home. You shall be one of the Fianna-Finn, my darling,” he called upwards.
 The boy looked down on him, and in the noble trust and fearlessness of that regard Fionn’s heart melted away.
 “My little fawn!” he said.
 And he remembered that other fawn. He set the boy between his knees and stared at him earnestly and long.
 “There is surely the same look,” he said to his wakening heart; “that is the very eye of Saeve.”
 The grief flooded out of his heart as at a stroke, and joy foamed into it in one great tide. He marched back singing to the encampment, and men saw once more the merry Chief they had almost forgotten.

 CHAPTER VI
 Just as at one time he could not be parted from Saeve, so now he could not be separated from this boy. He had a thousand names for him, each one more tender than the last: “My Fawn, My Pulse, My Secret Little Treasure,” or he would call him “My Music, My Blossoming Branch, My Store in the Heart, My Soul.” And the dogs were as wild for the boy as Fionn was. He could sit in safety among a pack that would have torn any man to pieces, and the reason was that Bran and Sceo’lan, with their three whelps, followed him about like shadows. When he was with the pack these five were with him, and woeful indeed was the eye they turned on their comrades when these pushed too closely or were not properly humble. They thrashed the pack severally and collectively until every hound in Fionn’s kennels knew that the little lad was their master, and that there was nothing in the world so sacred as he was.
 In no long time the five wise hounds could have given over their guardianship, so complete was the recognition of their young lord. But they did not so give over, for it was not love they gave the lad but adoration.
 Fionn even may have been embarrassed by their too close attendance. If he had been able to do so he might have spoken harshly to his dogs, but he could not; it was unthinkable that he should; and the boy might have spoken harshly to him if he had dared to do it. For this was the order of Fionn’s affection: first there was the boy; next, Bran and Sceo’lan with their three whelps; then Caelte mac Rona’n, and from him down through the champions. He loved them all, but it was along that precedence his affections ran. The thorn that went into Bran’s foot ran into Fionn’s also. The world knew it, and there was not a champion but admitted sorrowfully that there was reason for his love.
 Little by little the boy came to understand their speech and to speak it himself, and at last he was able to tell his story to Fionn.
 There were many blanks in the tale, for a young child does not remember very well. Deeds grow old in a day and are buried in a night. New memories come crowding on old ones, and one must learn to forget as well as to remember. A whole new life had come on this boy, a life that was instant and memorable, so that his present memories blended into and obscured the past, and he could not be quite sure if that which he told of had happened in this world or in the world he had left.

 CHAPTER VII
 “I used to live,” he said, “in a wide, beautiful place. There were hills and valleys there, and woods and streams, but in whatever direction I went I came always to a cliff, so tall it seemed to lean against the sky, and so straight that even a goat would not have imagined to climb it.”
 “I do not know of any such place,” Fionn mused.
 “There is no such place in Ireland,” said Caelte, “but in the Shi’ there is such a place.”
 “There is in truth,” said Fionn.
 “I used to eat fruits and roots in the summer,” the boy continued, “but in the winter food was left for me in a cave.”
 “Was there no one with you?” Fionn asked.
 “No one but a deer that loved me, and that I loved.”
 “Ah me!” cried Fionn in anguish, “tell me your tale, my son.”
 “A dark stern man came often after us, and he used to speak with the deer. Sometimes he talked gently and softly and coaxingly, but at times again he would shout loudly and in a harsh, angry voice. But whatever way he talked the deer would draw away from him in dread, and he always left her at last furiously.”
 “It is the Dark Magician of the Men of God,” cried Fionn despairingly.
 “It is indeed, my soul,” said Caelte.
 “The last time I saw the deer,” the child continued, “the dark man was speaking to her. He spoke for a long time. He spoke gently and angrily, and gently and angrily, so that I thought he would never stop talking, but in the end he struck her with a hazel rod, so that she was forced to follow him when he went away. She was looking back at me all the time and she was crying so bitterly that any one would pity her. I tried to follow her also, but I could not move, and I cried after her too, with rage and grief, until I could see her no more and hear her no more. Then I fell on the grass, my senses went away from me, and when I awoke I was on the hill in the middle of the hounds where you found me.”
 That was the boy whom the Fianna called Oisi’n, or the Little Fawn. He grew to be a great fighter afterwards, and he was the chief maker of poems in the world. But he was not yet finished with the Shi. He was to go back into Faery when the time came, and to come thence again to tell these tales, for it was by him these tales were told.
 

CHAPTER I
 We do not know where Becfola came from. Nor do we know for certain where she went to. We do not even know her real name, for the name Becfola, “Dowerless” or “Small-dowered,” was given to her as a nickname. This only is certain, that she disappeared from the world we know of, and that she went to a realm where even conjecture may not follow her.
 It happened in the days when Dermod, son of the famous Ae of Slane, was monarch of all Ireland. He was unmarried, but he had many foster-sons, princes from the Four Provinces, who were sent by their fathers as tokens of loyalty and affection to the Ard-Ri, and his duties as a foster-father were righteously acquitted. Among the young princes of his household there was one, Crimthann, son of Ae, King of Leinster, whom the High King preferred to the others over whom he held fatherly sway. Nor was this wonderful, for the lad loved him also, and was as eager and intelligent and modest as becomes a prince.
 The High King and Crimthann would often set out from Tara to hunt and hawk, sometimes unaccompanied even by a servant; and on these excursions the king imparted to his foster-son his own wide knowledge of forest craft, and advised him generally as to the bearing and duties of a prince, the conduct of a court, and the care of a people.
 Dermod mac Ae delighted in these solitary adventures, and when he could steal a day from policy and affairs he would send word privily to Crimthann. The boy, having donned his hunting gear, would join the king at a place arranged between them, and then they ranged abroad as chance might direct.
 On one of these adventures, as they searched a flooded river to find the ford, they saw a solitary woman in a chariot driving from the west.
 “I wonder what that means?” the king exclaimed thoughtfully.
 “Why should you wonder at a woman in a chariot?” his companion inquired, for Crimthann loved and would have knowledge.
 “Good, my Treasure,” Dermod answered, “our minds are astonished when we see a woman able to drive a cow to pasture, for it has always seemed to us that they do not drive well.”
 Crimthann absorbed instruction like a sponge and digested it as rapidly.
 “I think that is justly said,” he agreed.
 “But,” Dermod continued, “when we see a woman driving a chariot of two horses, then we are amazed indeed.”
 When the machinery of anything is explained to us we grow interested, and Crimthann became, by instruction, as astonished as the king was.
 “In good truth,” said he, “the woman is driving two horses.”
 “Had you not observed it before?” his master asked with kindly malice.
 “I had observed but not noticed,” the young man admitted.
 “Further,” said the king, “surmise is aroused in us when we discover a woman far from a house; for you will have both observed and noticed that women are home-dwellers, and that a house without a woman or a woman without a house are imperfect objects, and although they be but half observed, they are noticed on the double.”
 “There is no doubting it,” the prince answered from a knitted and thought-tormented brow.
 “We shall ask this woman for information about herself,” said the king decidedly.
 “Let us do so,” his ward agreed
 “The king’s majesty uses the words ‘we’ and ‘us’ when referring to the king’s majesty,” said Dermod, “but princes who do not yet rule territories must use another form of speech when referring to themselves.”
 “I am very thoughtless,” said Crimthann humbly.
 The king kissed him on both cheeks.
 “Indeed, my dear heart and my son, we are not scolding you, but you must try not to look so terribly thoughtful when you think. It is part of the art of a ruler.”
 “I shall never master that hard art,” lamented his fosterling.
 “We must all master it,” Dermod replied. “We may think with our minds and with our tongues, but we should never think with our noses and with our eyebrows.”
 The woman in the chariot had drawn nigh to the ford by which they were standing, and, without pause, she swung her steeds into the shallows and came across the river in a tumult of foam and spray.
 “Does she not drive well?” cried Crimthann admiringly.
 “When you are older,” the king counselled him, “you will admire that which is truly admirable, for although the driving is good the lady is better.”
 He continued with enthusiasm.
 “She is in truth a wonder of the world and an endless delight to the eye.”
 She was all that and more, and, as she took the horses through the river and lifted them up the bank, her flying hair and parted lips and all the young strength and grace of her body went into the king’s eye and could not easily come out again.
 Nevertheless, it was upon his ward that the lady’s gaze rested, and if the king could scarcely look away from her, she could, but only with an equal effort, look away from Crimthann.
 “Halt there!” cried the king.
 “Who should I halt for?” the lady demanded, halting all the same, as is the manner of women, who rebel against command and yet receive it.
 “Halt for Dermod!”
 “There are Dermods and Dermods in this world,” she quoted.
 “There is yet but one Ard-Ri’,” the monarch answered.
 She then descended from the chariot and made her reverence.
 “I wish to know your name?” said he.
 But at this demand the lady frowned and answered decidedly:
 “I do not wish to tell it.”
 “I wish to know also where you come from and to what place you are going?”
 “I do not wish to tell any of these things.”
 “Not to the king!”
 “I do not wish to tell them to any one.”
 Crimthann was scandalised.
 “Lady,” he pleaded, “you will surely not withhold information from the Ard-Ri’?”
 But the lady stared as royally on the High King as the High King did on her, and, whatever it was he saw in those lovely eyes, the king did not insist.
 He drew Crimthann apart, for he withheld no instruction from that lad.
 “My heart,” he said, “we must always try to act wisely, and we should only insist on receiving answers to questions in which we are personally concerned.”
 Crimthann imbibed all the justice of that remark.
 “Thus I do not really require to know this lady’s name, nor do I care from what direction she comes.”
 “You do not?” Crimthann asked.
 “No, but what I do wish to know is, Will she marry me?”
 “By my hand that is a notable question,” his companion stammered.
 “It is a question that must be answered,” the king cried triumphantly. “But,” he continued, “to learn what woman she is, or where she comes from, might bring us torment as well as information. Who knows in what adventures the past has engaged her!”
 And he stared for a profound moment on disturbing, sinister horizons, and Crimthann meditated there with him.
 “The past is hers,” he concluded, “but the future is ours, and we shall only demand that which is pertinent to the future.”
 He returned to the lady.
 “We wish you to be our wife,” he said. And he gazed on her benevolently and firmly and carefully when he said that, so that her regard could not stray otherwhere. Yet, even as he looked, a tear did well into those lovely eyes, and behind her brow a thought moved of the beautiful boy who was looking at her from the king’s side.
 But when the High King of Ireland asks us to marry him we do not refuse, for it is not a thing that we shall be asked to do every day in the week, and there is no woman in the world but would love to rule it in Tara.
 No second tear crept on the lady’s lashes, and, with her hand in the king’s hand, they paced together towards the palace, while behind them, in melancholy mood, Crimthann mac Ae led the horses and the chariot.

 CHAPTER II
 They were married in a haste which equalled the king’s desire; and as he did not again ask her name, and as she did not volunteer to give it, and as she brought no dowry to her husband and received none from him, she was called Becfola, the Dowerless.
 Time passed, and the king’s happiness was as great as his expectation of it had promised. But on the part of Becfola no similar tidings can be given.
 There are those whose happiness lies in ambition and station, and to such a one the fact of being queen to the High King of Ireland is a satisfaction at which desire is sated. But the mind of Becfola was not of this temperate quality, and, lacking Crimthann, it seemed to her that she possessed nothing.
 For to her mind he was the sunlight in the sun, the brightness in the moonbeam; he was the savour in fruit and the taste in honey; and when she looked from Crimthann to the king she could not but consider that the right man was in the wrong place. She thought that crowned only with his curls Crlmthann mac Ae was more nobly diademed than are the masters of the world, and she told him so.
 His terror on hearing this unexpected news was so great that he meditated immediate flight from Tara; but when a thing has been uttered once it is easier said the second time and on the third repetition it is patiently listened to.
 After no great delay Crimthann mac Ae agreed and arranged that he and Becfola should fly from Tara, and it was part of their understanding that they should live happily ever after.
 One morning, when not even a bird was astir, the king felt that his dear companion was rising. He looked with one eye at the light that stole greyly through the window, and recognised that it could not in justice be called light.
 “There is not even a bird up,” he murmured.
 And then to Becfola.
 “What is the early rising for, dear heart?”
 “An engagement I have,” she replied.
 “This is not a time for engagements,” said the calm monarch.
 “Let it be so,” she replied, and she dressed rapidly.
 “And what is the engagement?” he pursued.
 “Raiment that I left at a certain place and must have. Eight silken smocks embroidered with gold, eight precious brooches of beaten gold, three diadems of pure gold.”
 “At this hour,” said the patient king, “the bed is better than the road.”
 “Let it be so,” said she.
 “And moreover,” he continued, “a Sunday journey brings bad luck.”
 “Let the luck come that will come,” she answered.
 “To keep a cat from cream or a woman from her gear is not work for a king,” said the monarch severely.
 The Ard-Ri’ could look on all things with composure, and regard all beings with a tranquil eye; but it should be known that there was one deed entirely hateful to him, and he would punish its commission with the very last rigour—this was, a transgression of the Sunday. During six days of the week all that could happen might happen, so far as Dermod was concerned, but on the seventh day nothing should happen at all if the High King could restrain it. Had it been possible he would have tethered the birds to their own green branches on that day, and forbidden the clouds to pack the upper world with stir and colour. These the king permitted, with a tight lip, perhaps, but all else that came under his hand felt his control.
 It was his custom when he arose on the morn of Sunday to climb to the most elevated point of Tara, and gaze thence on every side, so that he might see if any fairies or people of the Shi’ were disporting themselves in his lordship; for he absolutely prohibited the usage of the earth to these beings on the Sunday, and woe’s worth was it for the sweet being he discovered breaking his law.
 We do not know what ill he could do to the fairies, but during Dermod’s reign the world said its prayers on Sunday and the Shi’ folk stayed in their hills.
 It may be imagined, therefore, with what wrath he saw his wife’s preparations for her journey, but, although a king can do everything, what can a husband do...? He rearranged himself for slumber.
 “I am no party to this untimely journey,” he said angrily.
 “Let it be so,” said Becfola.
 She left the palace with one maid, and as she crossed the doorway something happened to her, but by what means it happened would be hard to tell; for in the one pace she passed out of the palace and out of the world, and the second step she trod was in Faery, but she did not know this.
 Her intention was to go to Cluain da chaillech to meet Crimthann, but when she left the palace she did not remember Crimthann any more.
 To her eye and to the eye of her maid the world was as it always had been, and the landmarks they knew were about them. But the object for which they were travelling was different, although unknown, and the people they passed on the roads were unknown, and were yet people that they knew.
 They set out southwards from Tara into the Duffry of Leinster, and after some time they came into wild country and went astray. At last Becfola halted, saying:
 “I do not know where we are.”
 The maid replied that she also did not know.
 “Yet,” said Becfola, “if we continue to walk straight on we shall arrive somewhere.”
 They went on, and the maid watered the road with her tears.
 Night drew on them; a grey chill, a grey silence, and they were enveloped in that chill and silence; and they began to go in expectation and terror, for they both knew and did not know that which they were bound for.
 As they toiled desolately up the rustling and whispering side of a low hill the maid chanced to look back, and when she looked back she screamed and pointed, and clung to Becfola’s arm. Becfola followed the pointing finger, and saw below a large black mass that moved jerkily forward.
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 “Wolves!” cried the maid. “Run to the trees yonder,” her mistress ordered. “We will climb them and sit among the branches.”
 They ran then, the maid moaning and lamenting all the while.
 “I cannot climb a tree,” she sobbed, “I shall be eaten by the wolves.”
 And that was true.
 But her mistress climbed a tree, and drew by a hand’s breadth from the rap and snap and slaver of those steel jaws. Then, sitting on a branch, she looked with angry woe at the straining and snarling horde below, seeing many a white fang in those grinning jowls, and the smouldering, red blink of those leaping and prowling eyes.

 CHAPTER III
 But after some time the moon arose and the wolves went away, for their leader, a sagacious and crafty chief, declared that as long as they remained where they were, the lady would remain where she was; and so, with a hearty curse on trees, the troop departed. Becfola had pains in her legs from the way she had wrapped them about the branch, but there was no part of her that did not ache, for a lady does not sit with any ease upon a tree.
 For some time she did not care to come down from the branch. “Those wolves may return,” she said, “for their chief is crafty and sagacious, and it is certain, from the look I caught in his eye as he departed, that he would rather taste of me than cat any woman he has met.”
 She looked carefully in every direction to see if one might discover them in hiding; she looked closely and lingeringly at the shadows under distant trees to see if these shadows moved; and she listened on every wind to try if she could distinguish a yap or a yawn or a sneeze. But she saw or heard nothing; and little by little tranquillity crept into her mind, and she began to consider that a danger which is past is a danger that may be neglected.
 Yet ere she descended she looked again on the world of jet and silver that dozed about her, and she spied a red glimmer among distant trees.
 “There is no danger where there is light,” she said, and she thereupon came from the tree and ran in the direction that she had noted.
 In a spot between three great oaks she came upon a man who was roasting a wild boar over a fire. She saluted this youth and sat beside him. But after the first glance and greeting he did not look at her again, nor did he speak.
 When the boar was cooked he ate of it and she had her share. Then he arose from the fire and walked away among the trees. Becfola followed, feeling ruefully that something new to her experience had arrived; “for,” she thought, “it is usual that young men should not speak to me now that I am the mate of a king, but it is very unusual that young men should not look at me.”
 But if the young man did not look at her she looked well at him, and what she saw pleased her so much that she had no time for further cogitation. For if Crimthann had been beautiful, this youth was ten times more beautiful. The curls on Crimthann’s head had been indeed as a benediction to the queen’s eye, so that she had eaten the better and slept the sounder for seeing him. But the sight of this youth left her without the desire to eat, and, as for sleep, she dreaded it, for if she closed an eye she would be robbed of the one delight in time, which was to look at this young man, and not to cease looking at him while her eye could peer or her head could remain upright.
 They came to an inlet of the sea all sweet and calm under the round, silver-flooding moon, and the young man, with Becfola treading on his heel, stepped into a boat and rowed to a high-jutting, pleasant island. There they went inland towards a vast palace, in which there was no person but themselves alone, and there the young man went to sleep, while Becfola sat staring at him until the unavoidable peace pressed down her eyelids and she too slumbered.
 She was awakened in the morning by a great shout.
 “Come out, Flann, come out, my heart!”
 The young man leaped from his couch, girded on his harness, and strode out. Three young men met him, each in battle harness, and these four advanced to meet four other men who awaited them at a little distance on the lawn. Then these two sets of four fought togethor with every warlike courtesy but with every warlike severity, and at the end of that combat there was but one man standing, and the other seven lay tossed in death.
 Becfola spoke to the youth.
 “Your combat has indeed been gallant,” she said.
 “Alas,” he replied, “if it has been a gallant deed it has not been a good one, for my three brothers are dead and my four nephews are dead.”
 “Ah me!” cried Becfola, “why did you fight that fight?”
 “For the lordship of this island, the Isle of Fedach, son of Dali.”
 But, although Becfola was moved and horrified by this battle, it was in another direction that her interest lay; therefore she soon asked the question which lay next her heart:
 “Why would you not speak to me or look at me?”
 “Until I have won the kingship of this land from all claimants, I am no match for the mate of the High King of Ireland,” he replied.
 And that reply was llke balm to the heart of Becfola.
 “What shall I do?” she inquired radiantly. “Return to your home,” he counselled. “I will escort you there with your maid, for she is not really dead, and when I have won my lordship I will go seek you in Tara.”
 “You will surely come,” she insisted.
 “By my hand,” quoth he, “I will come.”
 These three returned then, and at the end of a day and night they saw far off the mighty roofs of Tara massed in the morning haze. The young man left them, and with many a backward look and with dragging, reluctant feet, Becfola crossed the threshold of the palace, wondering what she should say to Dermod and how she could account for an absence of three days’ duration.

 CHAPTER IV
 IT was so early that not even a bird was yet awake, and the dull grey light that came from the atmosphere enlarged and made indistinct all that one looked at, and swathed all things in a cold and livid gloom.
 As she trod cautiously through dim corridors Becfola was glad that, saving the guards, no creature was astir, and that for some time yet she need account to no person for her movements. She was glad also of a respite which would enable her to settle into her home and draw about her the composure which women feel when they are surrounded by the walls of their houses, and can see about them the possessions which, by the fact of ownership, have become almost a part of their personality. Sundered from her belongings, no woman is tranquil, her heart is not truly at ease, however her mind may function, so that under the broad sky or in the house of another she is not the competent, precise individual which she becomes when she sees again her household in order and her domestic requirements at her hand.
 Becfola pushed the door of the king’s sleeping chamber and entered noiselessly. Then she sat quietly in a seat gazing on the recumbent monarch, and prepared to consider how she should advance to him when he awakened, and with what information she might stay his inquiries or reproaches.
 “I will reproach him,” she thought. “I will call him a bad husband and astonish him, and he will forget everything but his own alarm and indignation.”
 But at that moment the king lifted his head from the pillow and looked kindly at her. Her heart gave a great throb, and she prepared to speak at once and in great volume before he could formulate any question. But the king spoke first, and what he said so astonished her that the explanation and reproach with which her tongue was thrilling fled from it at a stroke, and she could only sit staring and bewildered and tongue-tied.
 “Well, my dear heart,” said the king, “have you decided not to keep that engagement?”
 “I—I—!” Becfola stammered.
 “It is truly not an hour for engagements,” Dermod insisted, “for not a bird of the birds has left his tree; and,” he continued maliciously, “the light is such that you could not see an engagement even if you met one.”
 “I,” Becfola gasped. “I—-!”
 “A Sunday journey,” he went on, “is a notorious bad journey. No good can come from it. You can get your smocks and diadems to-morrow. But at this hour a wise person leaves engagements to the bats and the staring owls and the round-eyed creatures that prowl and sniff in the dark. Come back to the warm bed, sweet woman, and set on your journey in the morning.”
 Such a load of apprehension was lifted from Becfola’s heart that she instantly did as she had been commanded, and such a bewilderment had yet possession of her faculties that she could not think or utter a word on any subject.
 Yet the thought did come into her head as she stretched in the warm gloom that Crimthann the son of Ae must be now attending her at Cluain da chaillech, and she thought of that young man as of something wonderful and very ridiculous, and the fact that he was waiting for her troubled her no more than if a sheep had been waiting for her or a roadside bush.
 She fell asleep.

 CHAPTER V
 In the morning as they sat at breakfast four clerics were announced, and when they entered the king looked on them with stern disapproval.
 “What is the meaning of this journey on Sunday?” he demanded.
 A lank-jawed, thin-browed brother, with uneasy, intertwining fingers, and a deep-set, venomous eye, was the spokesman of those four.
 “Indeed,” he said, and the fingers of his right hand strangled and did to death the fingers of his left hand, “indeed, we have transgressed by order.”
 “Explain that.”
 “We have been sent to you hurriedly by our master, Molasius of Devenish.”
 “A pious, a saintly man,” the king interrupted, “and one who does not countenance transgressions of the Sunday.”
 “We were ordered to tell you as follows,” said the grim cleric, and he buried the fingers of his right hand in his left fist, so that one could not hope to see them resurrected again. “It was the duty of one of the Brothers of Devenish,” he continued, “to turn out the cattle this morning before the dawn of day, and that Brother, while in his duty, saw eight comely young men who fought together.”
 “On the morning of Sunday,” Dermod exploded.
 The cleric nodded with savage emphasis.
 “On the morning of this self-same and instant sacred day.”
 “Tell on,” said the king wrathfully.
 But terror gripped with sudden fingers at Becfola’s heart.
 “Do not tell horrid stories on the Sunday,” she pleaded. “No good can come to any one from such a tale.”
 “Nay, this must be told, sweet lady,” said the king. But the cleric stared at her glumly, forbiddingly, and resumed his story at a gesture.
 “Of these eight men, seven were killed.”
 “They are in hell,” the king said gloomily.
 “In hell they are,” the cleric replied with enthusiasm.
 “And the one that was not killed?”
 “He is alive,” that cleric responded.
 “He would be,” the monarch assented. “Tell your tale.”
 “Molasius had those seven miscreants buried, and he took from their unhallowed necks and from their lewd arms and from their unblessed weapons the load of two men in gold and silver treasure.”
 “Two men’s load!” said Dermod thoughtfully.
 “That much,” said the lean cleric. “No more, no less. And he has sent us to find out what part of that hellish treasure belongs to the Brothers of Devenish and how much is the property of the king.”
 Becfola again broke in, speaking graciously, regally, hastily: “Let those Brothers have the entire of the treasure, for it is Sunday treasure, and as such it will bring no luck to any one.”
 The cleric again looked at her coldly, with a harsh-lidded, small-set, grey-eyed glare, and waited for the king’s reply.
 Dermod pondered, shaking his head as to an argument on his left side, and then nodding it again as to an argument on his right.
 “It shall be done as this sweet queen advises. Let a reliquary be formed with cunning workmanship of that gold and silver, dated with my date and signed with my name, to be in memory of my grandmother who gave birth to a lamb, to a salmon, and then to my father, the Ard-Ri’. And, as to the treasure that remains over, a pastoral staff may be beaten from it in honour of Molasius, the pious man.”
 “The story is not ended,” said that glum, spike-chinned cleric.
 The king moved with jovial impatience.
 “If you continue it,” he said, “it will surely come to an end some time. A stone on a stone makes a house, dear heart, and a word on a word tells a tale.”
 The cleric wrapped himself into himself, and became lean and menacing. He whispered: “Besides the young man, named Flann, who was not slain, there was another person present at the scene and the combat and the transgression of Sunday.”
 “Who was that person?” said the alarmed monarch.
 The cleric spiked forward his chin, and then butted forward his brow.
 “It was the wife of the king,” he shouted. “It was the woman called Becfola. It was that woman,” he roared, and he extended a lean, inflexible, unending first finger at the queen.
 “Dog!” the king stammered, starting up.
 “If that be in truth a woman,” the cleric screamed.
 “What do you mean?” the king demanded in wrath and terror.
 “Either she is a woman of this world to be punished, or she is a woman of the Shi’ to be banished, but this holy morning she was in the Shi’, and her arms were about the neck of Flann.”
 The king sank back in his chair stupefied, gazing from one to the other, and then turned an unseeing, fear-dimmed eye towards Becfola.
 “Is this true, my pulse?” he murmured.
 “It is true,” Becfola replied, and she became suddenly to the king’s eye a whiteness and a stare. He pointed to the door.
 “Go to your engagement,” he stammered. “Go to that Flann.”
 “He is waiting for me,” said Becfola with proud shame, “and the thought that he should wait wrings my heart.”
 She went out from the palace then. She went away from Tara: and in all Ireland and in the world of living men she was not seen again, and she was never heard of again.